The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

Both DS Hopgood and DC Pye handed out their cards to the three of us—Mrs. Woolgar, Pauline, and me—as we stood at the front door to bid them farewell, like good hosts.

  “There’ll be more questions,” Hopgood warned us.

  I had one. “Is it safe for us to stay here?”

  “I’d say that’s up to the two of you—Mrs. Woolgar’s already asked about changing your outside door locks and the security code. Fine by us. You’ve got your own doors and you say nothing was disturbed in your flats, but you may want to get new locks there, too. And you may feel more comfortable—at least for a night or two—staying elsewhere. We’ll keep an eye out—I’ll have a patrol car drive by hourly and uniforms on foot along the path behind. We’ll continue that as long as need be.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The door closed, and we were instantly wrapped in silence as if we’d been packed in cotton wool.

  “Shall I come back another day to finish?” Pauline asked, the duster hanging lifelessly at her side. “I could do on Monday.”

  “No, next Thursday will be fine.”

  “You’ll need a new key and code by then,” Mrs. Woolgar said. “Shall I ring the locksmith now, Ms. Burke, and then look for the booklet on the security system?”

  After Pauline left, Mrs. Woolgar and I retreated to our own flats, agreeing to meet at four o’clock to . . . to do what, I wasn’t sure. But I had noticed the gray cast to her complexion that almost matched her steel-colored hair—and if Mrs. Woolgar felt half as drained as I did, we both needed a nap.

  * * *

  * * *

  I locked myself in my flat and leaned on the door—grateful to escape into my sanctuary. But snippets of scenes from the day flitted across the screen of my mind like a poorly edited film—Trist’s face with unseeing eyes, police tramping up and down the stairs—and a swell of emotion rose up in my chest.

  “No!” I straightened up, banished any thoughts of murder, and went to the kitchen to cook an omelet for my lunch.

  Food gave me a clearer head but did nothing for the ache in my heart. I needed to be comforted. I needed to talk to Wyn.

  “Hello, you,” he answered.

  Upon hearing his chipper voice, I could barely speak, but at last eked out a feeble “Hello, you” in reply.

  “Did you know it’s quite important to keep a stable temperature in a cream sauce to keep it from breaking?”

  Wyn had an interesting conversational style—he rarely introduced a topic before diving in. Although accustomed to it, I often had to gallop to keep up.

  “Are you cooking?”

  “No, only a bit of research. Tommy was looking into Italian for lunches, and I got worried about the alfredo sauce traveling all that way in Myrtle’s food box. Temperature may be a bit of a problem, and also, the food is getting knocked round in there. Never mind—how’s the world of mysteries?”

  “I think I prefer them in a book to the real thing. You see . . .” and I dropped onto the sofa and told him of my day.

  “My God, Hayley—right there, in your own house?”

  Wyn was still a bit shaky about what constituted my living arrangements and thought I had the run of Middlebank, but I knew we’d sort that out when he came down for a visit. In the meantime, I heard the concern in his voice, and it made me a bit teary. I kept myself in check while I explained the various components of the house again.

  “Well, you really shouldn’t be there on your own until the police have sorted the whole thing.”

  “We’re getting new locks, and we’re changing the security code on the alarm—but I suppose I would feel better with someone else about.” Why not you? Wouldn’t you come to Bath to comfort your girlfriend?

  “Say, why don’t you stay with Adele? She’d have you for a night or two, wouldn’t she?”

  “Yeah, of course she would.”

  “And you’ll be off to see your mum at the weekend?”

  “I will.”

  “Look, here’s Tommy now—I’ve got to go. We’re going to walk a delivery route carrying the alfredo in the box—can’t trust it to Myrtle yet—just to see how it fares. You sure you’re all right?”

  I made a noise that resembled an answer of sorts—all I could do as tears streamed down my cheeks.

  “Love you,” he said, and was gone.

  “Love you”—I could only mouth the words as my face scrunched up and a howl escaped. I pulled a pillow to my chest as sobs racked my body, but in a few minutes, my misery eased to ragged breathing. After a hiccup or two, I panted as I regained my composure and wiped my face on my sleeve. This was not normal behavior for me— it must be shock. I rested my head against the back of the sofa, and—still clutching the pillow—fell asleep. I awoke confused, and it took me a moment before I remembered it all. Yes, that’s right—Trist, dead in the library. And not by his own hand, it appeared. A murder.

  I recoiled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror—blotchy face, swollen eyes. I splashed cold water to no effect and tried to remember the puffy-eye remedies I’d read about in magazines. Slices of cucumber? Didn’t have time for that—didn’t have the cucumber. Used tea bags? I would need to drink a cup of tea first. I switched the kettle on and checked the time. Just gone three—was Adele finished with school yet? I dug my phone out from where it had slipped between sofa cushions.

  Bit of bother here.

  I stared at the words of the text I’d written. Bother made it sound as if we had a leaky kitchen tap, not a murder. Problem? Fuss? Commotion? No, don’t try to explain.

  Give me a ring.

  I’d finished my tea and worked my way into a package of chocolate hobnobs—eyeing the clock as the time edged toward four when Adele rang.

  “Sorry,” she said, “I had the Young Suffragettes Club after school today. Is something up?”

  “Yeah, something is definitely up.” I’d cried myself dry, and so I was ready to give her a coherent rundown of events. “One of the writers was murdered and left in the library for us to find.”

  “Bloody hell. Are you all right?”

  “Yes—neither Mrs. Woolgar nor I heard a thing. It must’ve happened sometime during the night.”

  “And he was killed right there?”

  “No, that’s the thing. The writers had left. We were locked up—the alarm was set. But he died out on Gravel Walk—and apparently he was carried back in and up to the library.”

  “Who would . . . Listen, you don’t want to stay there tonight, do you? Pack your bag—my sofa’s free. I’ll be home by six.”

  * * *

  * * *

  At four o’clock, I’d changed into denims and a sweater and tried more cold water on my face, but to no avail, and so I swore off mirrors for the time being. I carefully negotiated my way down the stairs and past the library door—closed and looking ever so innocent—and to the ground floor, where Mrs. Woolgar waited for me.

  “The locksmith will be here tomorrow morning,” she reported. “It’s as early as I could get him. Perhaps the morning would also be a good time to sort out the security code change.” The secretary kept her eyes on the floor. “I’ve decided not to stay here this evening, Ms. Burke—with what’s happened, I’m not sure I would feel safe. I’m sorry to abandon you like this, but perhaps you could—”

  “It’s fine, Mrs. Woolgar, really.” It was a relief, that’s what it was— she was jumping ship first, and so I only needed to follow. “I’ve made other arrangements, too, but I’ll be back well before nine o’clock tomorrow morning and ready to meet the locksmith.” I glanced round the entry, so calm after the earlier congestion. “I wonder, will the police need to return?”

  “I certainly hope not,” she huffed. “Well, then—I’ll be off.” It was only then did I notice the small case just inside her office door and realized she was poised to flee.

  “Befor
e you go . . .” I began.

  She paused and waited while I got up my nerve. I didn’t want her to undermine my position and derail any plans for the Society, but I should tread carefully. “I’m sure you’ll agree it’s my place as curator to tell the board what has happened.”

  “They’ll need to know soon,” she replied.

  “Of course they will. I will ring each one of them tomorrow morning and explain.”

  She conceded with a brief nod, and added, “Yes, all right.”

  But I had seen a flicker behind her eyes, and reminded myself that Mrs. Woolgar had a mole on the board. I knew then that I’d already lost my advantage.

  7

  We left it at that. Tomorrow I would have to sort out whatever damage Mrs. Woolgar might have done to my position with the board of trustees. I flew up to my flat, crammed clean knickers and a toothbrush into my bag, and made it out the front door in three minutes. I set the alarm before leaving, although I wondered what good it would do.

  Adele wouldn’t be home for a while, but just as well, because I needed to have my fingerprints taken and sign my statement. I walked down to the police station amid the rest of the world—schoolchildren, autumn tourists at the Roman baths. They paid me no mind, but still I felt an alien among the throng, set apart by the discovery that morning of a corpse outside the door of my flat.

  A sea of commuters swarmed up from the rail station, and I hurried to avoid them, taking a sharp right into the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. I stopped inside the lobby to get my bearings. A uniformed woman behind a desk greeted me, and when I told her why I was there, she didn’t blink an eye, but directed me to a door where I was met by another uniform, who took me to a counter where I proffered my hands. It was all so efficient and modern. No more inky fingers like in the old films—instead, I pressed my fingers onto a glass plate and my prints were scanned electronically. I signed my statement that Sergeant Hopgood—or, more likely, someone on his team—had typed up. After that, I was dismissed.

  A mizzling rain had started up by the time I got to Adele’s flat—a corner, one-bedroom place above a launderette. I was early, and since it hadn’t occurred to me to bring a waterproof jacket, I ducked into the grocery across the road and shopped for a bottle of wine for the evening as I kept an eye out the window. I was at the till when I saw her arrive.

  Dashing over as she unlocked the door at street level, I asked, “You think one bottle will be enough? I could nip back in for a second one.”

  Adele gave my cheek a pat. “You’ve had a dreadful day, haven’t you? Never fear, I’m well stocked.”

  I followed her up the stairs, and once inside, I flumped onto the sofa while Adele dumped her school bag and keys and opened the wine as I recounted the events of the morning.

  “I can’t believe you’d been out for your walk and went up to your flat,” she said, handing me a glass, “and all that time, he was in the library.”

  “Thanks. And I went to my office, and then downstairs to find out why Mrs. Woolgar was late—it wasn’t until Pauline went into the library to clean that he was found. I’ve no idea how long he’d been there.” I shuddered. “To see him stretched out like that on the floor, and to realize I’d known him, that I’d seen him alive only the evening before . . .”

  “Well then.” Adele held her own glass up. “Here’s to him— here’s to . . .”

  “Trist.”

  We drank and I sighed and Adele asked, “What was he like?”

  I could only shrug. “I don’t know—I don’t know any of them, actually. Although, I got the feeling he was a bit of a bully.” Guilt washed over me for speaking ill of the dead.

  “Do you think he could’ve fallen on Gravel Walk,” Adele mused, “and received a mortal wound—but then didn’t die immediately? Instead, he carried on—broke in, went up to the library, and collapsed. Haven’t you heard of something like that happening?”

  “I have to admit I prefer that idea—Trist dying on his own—to someone dragging him indoors and leaving him. Someone who got into Middlebank without any trouble. ‘No sign of forced entry.’ That’s what they said.”

  “He could’ve been followed—I suppose the police swept the library for fingerprints and any signs of blood.”

  “Sergeant Hopgood said he died outdoors, and instantly. That’s why there wasn’t any blood. And anyway—ewww. How do you think of these things?”

  “I read a lot of mysteries,” Adele replied. “You should try it.”

  “All right, all right—I’ll get to them.” I fumed. “This won’t be good for my efforts to increase the Society’s standing in the world of genre fiction.”

  Adele laughed. “Hayley, listen to yourself. What detective writer or fan, upon hearing that a body was found at The First Edition Society in a library full of classic mysteries, wouldn’t want to visit the spot? Or at the very least, get on your mailing list.”

  A thought struck me as hard as a slap. “You don’t think the police will suspect I did it for the publicity, do you?”

  “Don’t be daft—how could you have dragged him up those stairs?”

  “Sergeant Hopgood said it might’ve been two people. I believe his implication was that Mrs. Woolgar and I did it.”

  “I’d’ve bought a ticket to see that.” Adele laughed again, and this time I joined her. “This is tough for you—and it can’t be easy on Glynis either. How is she?”

  “Staying off the premises, same as me.” I took a drink of my rapidly disappearing wine and added, “I explained that I should be the one to tell the board members what’s happened and that I would do it tomorrow morning. I didn’t think it was wise to say anything before we had more information. But I think she’s already been on the phone to them.”

  “I’m on the board, and you told me.”

  “Well, that’s different—you’re my friend.”

  “I daresay Glynis would use the same excuse—they’re her friends.” I reached for the bottle of wine as Adele reached for her phone. “Pizza?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Anything on your literary salons?” Adele asked. “Did you hear back from Bath College?”

  We’d moved away from the murder, and I was feeling much better—aided by food and the second bottle of wine. “Yes, a lecturer from the adult-learning program—Val Moffatt. We talked over the idea, and I think it’ll work. Of course, first he’ll have to get approval.” My spirits took a nosedive. “But how will a murder help us there? The college will think we’re a risky venture.”

  Adele bit her lip as she thought. “You might want to give the college a formal presentation. Be professional, stay focused. I don’t see why you’d have to ask our board for permission, but if they want to know anything, remember to shift your emphasis—you know what I mean?”

  Oh, I did indeed. She meant for our board, always make it about Lady Fowling—who would’ve been delighted at such a venture—and not about tearing at the fabric of the quiet and complacent Society. For the college—“I’ll need another meeting with Moffatt.”

  Adele turned away to reach for a slice of pizza. “And so this Moffatt—he’s all right?”

  “Actually, he’s a bit of a tosser.”

  “Is he?”

  “He had the nerve to point out my luxury accommodations, as if I’m some toff surrounded by the privileges of class and money.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I picked a shred of Parma ham off my pizza and dropped it in my mouth. “I don’t need to like him, only to work with him.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I lay awake staring at the dark ceiling, thirsty, with visions of DS Hopgood clapping handcuffs on me and dragging me away as Mrs. Woolgar stood on the doorstep of Middlebank with a malicious grin. Adele was right—why would the police suspect me of having murdere
d him for the publicity? At three in the morning—Adele had a wall clock with hands that glowed purple—I got up, drank two glasses of water, and returned to the sofa to fall asleep at last. I awoke at half-past six, bloated and still thirsty.

  “You can stay here and shower,” Adele said as she buttoned her jacket and pulled her hair out from under the collar. “I’ve an early meeting.”

  I stabbed a spoon into a bowl of cornflakes. “No, thanks—I’ll be off in a minute. I’ll shower at home and get myself ready for the day. Must look my best for work, you know.”

  She gave me the once-over and said, “Good luck with that,” as she backed out the door. Her grin, like the Cheshire cat’s, was the last to leave.

  I dragged myself to Middlebank and stood on the doorstep, overwhelmed by inertia and not a little uneasiness. Had Mrs. Woolgar returned? Had someone else come in during the night and left another body in the library? Could I get up the nerve and walk in alone? When a taxi flew down the street and honked at a wayward pedestrian, I jumped, my heart pounding. Shaking off my fears, I shoved the key in the door and entered.

  Bunter trotted out of the secretary’s office—his usual overnight accommodations—and chastised me for being late with his breakfast. I accompanied him to the kitchenette, topped up his dish—still half full—and cleaned out his litter pan, which resided in the adjacent loo. Then I scurried upstairs, but stopped dead on the first-floor landing.

  The library door was closed, as it had been when I left the afternoon before. I felt both drawn to look in and, at the same time, repelled by the thought—and that froze me to the spot. After a moment and with great effort, I crept closer, and with a shaking hand, opened the door. Nothing. The large table and chairs were perfectly composed. The shelves of books were undisturbed. The library ladder stood in its corner, and at the far end of the room near the fireplace, the wingback chairs and tea table looked not an inch out of place.